


Her Father's Daughter

by fawatson



Category: The Mark of the Horse Lord - Rosemary Sutcliff
Genre: Backstory, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 19:38:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murna as a child.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Her Father's Daughter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tanaqui](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanaqui/gifts).



> Request: The Mark of the Horse Lord: Murna
> 
> I would love to see something about Murna set before the book, perhaps exploring what it was like growing up in her mother's shadow, her relationships with Midir and Conory as children, or learning and dancing the dirk-dance with her "wild-cat sisters".
> 
> Author's Note: 
> 
> In Chapter 15, Murna says to Phaedrus, "I am my father's daughter as well as my mother's. Do you remember how big and warm and golden he was, before she drained him out until he was only the poor hollow husk of a man? Just such a husk as Logiore was at the end?"
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: 
> 
> I do not own these characters and make no profit from them.

There was an excitement to this day. The men had been hunting the last few days, bringing in a stag and a wild boar. Special cakes had been made by the women; Murna had helped chop the hazelnuts. People who normally stayed in their outlying lands had been arriving since the day before last. The Dun had never been so full of people before. The noise of it had woken her early in her corner of the Queen’s Place. Hastily she had pulled on an old skirt and top before reaching for the leather vest her Da had made for her last birthday, pulling that over the shirt for warmth, before she crept out. Had she been noticed by one of her mother’s women, Grania would have been told, and no doubt, would have called her back, finding some task suitable for small hands. At nine there were limits to what she could do; but she still had her uses. But she moved quietly, keeping to the shadows of dawn, and escaped the confines of the Women’s Side. 

A huge dust cloud announced the arrival of another chariot. Murna skipped hastily out of the way as Dergdian’s horses drew close. Conory was there waiting to take their reins (it was not only the girls who were being pressed into duties for this festival). She knew him well; her Da was cousin to his. But where Conory was, Midir would not be far away. Him, she feared – bigger than she, and with a single-mindedness to him that reminded her of her mother – best to keep out of Midir’s way. 

She made a half turn and headed for the King’s House where her father stayed. She remembered a time, some moons ago, when Father had shared a bothy with Mother. As a very little girl, she would crawl into bed between them both, if she woke in the middle of the night with bad dreams. As she grew up, and nightmares no longer troubled the young mind, that closeness had continued as her father woke her each morning, overseeing her breakfast before taking her down to the practice ground with him. There he would leave her with the other girls learning tumbling, while he threw spears with the men. Always, though, she had felt his regard from the other side of the field; if she had been particularly clever learning some new jump or hold, at the end of the morning he always knew, without needing to be told, and would congratulate. Two years ago when she was feverish from her first set of tattoos; it was her mother who prepared the potion that soothed her illness. It was her father who sat with her while she drank it, and who used the flame from the torch to make shadow puppets on the wall to entertain her until she fell asleep. 

That closeness had changed now. Last summer the Queen had died and Mother had moved into the place for the Royal Woman, taking Murna with her. Da now was part of the Royal Bodyguard and slept in the outer ring of the King’s House. He rarely visited. Once in a while Mother said something which acknowledged how much Murna missed him; but as a general rule she seemed not to notice his absence. 

The guards at the entrance to the King’s House smiled indulgently as Liadhan’s daughter ran in, pointing her in the right direction to find her father. He sat in a corner pulling on boots. As always, his face broke into a broad grin at the sight of her. His hair, loose, formed a thick mane across his shoulders. Murna sat behind him, combed and braided and pulled the plaits back into one tail which she tied with a black leather thong. It still was long and thick as it had always been, but silently she took note of the silver strands amidst the golden, more each day now, it seemed. He finished his last bite of bannock, washed down with a deep swallow of beer, then stood, taking up his hunting spears. 

“May I come?” Murna asked hopefully. “It will only take a moment to get my bow.”

“Not this time,” he smiled down at his daughter. “We are seeking another boar or perhaps a stag for the feast. You can help by fetching a portion to take with me for midday meal.” 

His hand rested briefly on her shoulder before he gave her a small push away from him as the King, Gault, and Logiore approached, equipped with their own hunting gear. Murna looked up at her uncle shyly from under her lids, before she slid past, and out the door. She ran swiftly across the compound to the cooking area. 

“Your mother was looking for you,” called Grania, as she paused by the cook fire selecting bannocks fresh from the pan. Murna’s quick eyes darted back and forth till she saw Liadhan, standing by a small iron pot hung over another small fire. She was stirring herbs into some mixture. Some sixth sense made her raise her head and look across into her daughter’s eyes. No further summons was needed; Murna had learned obedience almost as soon as she could stand. 

“Here,” Liadhan said, handing the wooden spoon to Murna, plus a bowl of herbs. “Stir this until the mixture thickens. Mind you do not let it scorch.” 

“But I was just getting Father...” Murna’s voice trailed off. 

Her mother had already turned away, picking up a pouch and flask, which clearly she had prepared already, and was handing them to a slave, bidding the lass to ‘make haste now’ and deliver them to her husband. 

Murna stirred. There would be no further escape for her that day. She chewed the bannock selected for her father, as her hand pushed the spoon in gentle circles. Too much work for too few hands led to one chore after another, until eventually she was released to go down to the river to wash. It was too cold to linger there; a quick dip left her shivering and rushing for her clothes, ahead of the other girls who, despite the frigid water, nonetheless took time out to play. But then Murna had another motivation to speed her; on her way back, she detoured to the horse enclosure. Her own dun mare whickered greeting; Murna fed her a handful of oats and patted her nose somewhat absent-mindedly. That was strange: the hunt must have ended because the King’s white stallion was back; but not her father’s black mare. 

“He was thrown.” 

Murna turned, startled; Conory stood behind her. His face was grey with dust streaked with tears. She started at him, unnerved, unable to respond. 

“It was after they stopped for a break. He seemed...different somehow. But when Levin asked if he felt all right, he just made a joke and said he had a bit of a headache and a gallop would do him good. He ran ahead of the others along the cliff’s edge. A rock dove rose up suddenly – startling his horse which reared and –”

“Da was thrown,” Murna said dully. “And his horse?” 

“Went over the cliff,” Conory was sympathy itself. Everybody had liked Murna’s father: even tempered, always willing to help out; a man who never had a bad word to say about another; who was more likely to laugh at an insult than take offence; but who could be counted on to fight fiercely when there was need to take arms. 

Murna’s throat ached but she held in her tears. As she made to go past Conory, he reached over to pat her shoulder; she twisted to avoid his hand and ran off up the path, back to the main settlement. It wasn’t easy to avoid sympathetic adults on the watch for her return; but somehow she made her way back to her corner of the Royal Woman’s bothy before giving way to her grief. There Grania found her, hugging her pillow, now soaked with tears. 

“Sa, Sa, child,” she said, patting Murna’s tangled hair. “Death comes to all in time; and there are worse ways than a broken neck from a fall.” 

“In time!” Murna cried passionately, “In time – yes! But not now! It wouldn’t have _been_ now if she hadn’t – ” She checked herself, biting off what she had been about to say. 

“Tush, girl. You cannot be blaming the mare for being frightened by a bird. Now,” Grania held a piece of rag to Murna’s streaming nose, “blow.” Her calm matter-of-fact manner helped Murna regain her control. 

“It is time to be dressing for the feast; there will be a funeral pyre afterward, with the prayers said to speed your father’s spirit. 

Murna nodded, allowing Grania to help her change from everyday clothes to the brightly coloured skirt and embroidered top reserved for special occasions. Her hair was brushed and twisted with red and blue strips of cloth. A diadem, suitable for the Royal Daughter, was placed on her head, and bells were fastened to her ankles, before Grania left her to herself again, going off to help Liadhan make ready. Murna pulled the discarded vest her father had made her onto her lap, stroking it gently. She had always loved touching its deep red-brown suede, smoothing the soft leather back of the garment all in one direction so she had a clear surface, then drawing intricate swirls, first one direction, then the other – or drawing a deer, or a horse. 

This time she drew her Da; it didn’t really come out looking like him. Her artistry was crude, simplistic (it was not one of her talents); but she knew who that figure was. Besides, the Dark People always said the power was in the thinking, not the fashioning. She pulled the vest on over her festive top and laced up the front, fastening beads to each lace and putting on the necklace of small beaten copper discs Da had given her two years before. Finally ready, she joined her mother for the procession to the Great Hall.


End file.
